


A Detective for a Muse

by AnonymousScriptor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Homeless John, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Musician John, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Revised Version, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5734087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousScriptor/pseuds/AnonymousScriptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was just homeless, trying to make due with playing guitar on the streets. He was good at it and loved performing until he met a certain Holmes that was more so interested in his personality than his music. To that man, John is like a composition that should be heard over and over until it was fully understood. An unfinished book that was written halfheartedly. A piece of a puzzle that seemed forever missing. Eventual Johnlock!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will say this story is also on my FF.net account if anyone would want to search it up.   
> However, this site will have my revisions as I make them. I'm in the process of fixing up Muse and pasting it here when I have the time to do so.  
> So whatever suits your fancy. :)

**Sherlock POV**  
Observing people, deducing their little brains, was all I was doing when I happened to cross him.   
At first, I thought nothing of it, another unlucky man who was doomed to the streets of London until his death came, swiftly and abruptly. He wouldn't last long; nobody ever does. People change on the streets when starvation and the cold touch their hearts. People can be quite contradictory to their personalities when desperation is involved, yet that didn't seem to faze the man in front of me. He appeared like he wanted it to come, his quick end, which was surprisingly odd to even _my_ statures.

He was no different than most people I have seen around these parts - an ordinary man with nothing special about him in the slightest. His clothes spoke volumes with the quality and the bad taste in general. A torn jumper splattered with remnants of perhaps his own blood and filth along a pair of denims tattered at the hems. His shoes appeared to be almost like loafers, stained from mud and living in alleyways. He was plain to put it nicely, just somebody else to read like an open book.

_"Give me love like her,_  
'Cause lately I've been waking up alone,  
Pain splattered teardrops on my shirt,  
Told you I'd let them go..." 

Ah, yes. It was his voice I think that refrained my indifference stride from taking place. The voice of those who have seen more than they let on; those were always the most intriguing to deduce. His voice was a key to it all, but he did well to hide his emotions from being too obvious from...well, those who are not nearly as intelligent to realize the meaning under his words. They were filled with emotion, more than should be placed into the song he was currently singing. Sadness, depression, forlorn, and lastly, regret. The regret was the most potent; it was a bitter, tangible resentment towards none other than himself. He was repentant of something of his past, possibly war considering the way he stood with his guitar. He was formal but relaxed from the song of his, and the emotions that refused to let him go. Interesting.

Tilting my head, I slowly inched towards the guitarist and observed his strumming fingers.

_"And that I'll fight my corner,_  
Maybe tonight I'll call ya  
After my blood turns to alcohol,  
No, I just wanna hold ya. 

_"Give a little time to me or burn this out,_  
We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,  
All I want is the taste that your lips allow,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my , my, give me love..." 

He plucked each string with professional talent, almost like he had been playing his entire life (perhaps he had). Each finger was slender and feather-light judging by how quickly they were willing to move to his little beat. They were almost a resemblance to doctor’s hands. 

No, wait, those were doctor’s hands, surgeon’s fingers in fact. They moved like so as well, almost like they were prodding a patient for an illness. The faded wristband on his wrist with his name (I believe) and St. Claire's hospital was only more evidence to prove the talent.

He leaned on one side when he played, his right side, and avoided the use of his left shoulder at all. Injury more than likely. Scrutinizing his clothing, I noticed two dull dog tags hanging from his neck. One held the same name as the wristband so it must be his own, but the other one was somebody else entire. Probably someone important to him or a close friend that died during an accident resulting in the gain of the tag. So he was a military man. 

A military doctor seemed more likely than anything judging by his degree, but nothing added up. If he was a military soldier or a doctor, he would have some sort of pension to last him for a while, at least enough for a cheap flat. Yet, here he stood on the streets playing his guitar.

_"Give me love like never before,_  
'Cause lately I've been craving more,  
And it's been a while but I still feel the same,  
Maybe I should let you go, 

_You know I'll fight my corner,_  
And that tonight I'll call ya,  
After my blood is drowning in alcohol,  
No, I just want to hold ya. 

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_  
We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,  
All I want is the taste that your lips allow,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love, 

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_  
We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,  
All I want is the taste that your lips allow,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love,  
My, my, my, my, oh give me love." 

I began to examine his face. It's odd how he hasn't noticed my... observing yet. Normally somebody would have looked up by now to find me, well, not looking at them obviously. Nevertheless, he continued to play, oblivious to the rest of the world and its horrendous torments. 

His face was furrowed at the brow, concentration, and his eyes were closed off - so he concentrates better when he is just by himself as most ordinary human beings. His mouth was set in a thin line, anger or frustration, and a tear hung on the tips of his lashes, sadness. This song brought back painful memories, but he feels it's his fault and continues to play to punish himself. He's a loyal soldier then; understands loss, but knows also when he's at charge for it.

As the minutes wore on, the only phrase he repeated constantly was _"my, my, my, my, oh give me love"_ which was quite boring and a bit childish, but I didn't want to stop him. He was like a new toy, interesting until you realize its limitations. It was only a matter of time until his entire life story was laid out before me to judge on a balance scale of boring and dull. Right now, that time hasn't appeared yet.

"I can see you looking at me," I heard him whisper just loud enough for me to hear. 

I just stared back with indifference, "Yes, your playing is quite above mediocre it appears, so is it not normal to stop and enjoy the...setting?"

He chuckled and shook his head. I saw him take a breath and expected a response when all I got were more vocals.

_"Of all the money that e'er I had,_  
I've spent it in good company  
And all the harm that e'er I've done  
Alas it was to none but me  
And all I've done for want of wit  
To memory now I can't recall  
So fill to me the parting glass  
Good night and joy be with you all..." 

I wanted to speak out against him for not responding to my question, but the raw emotion in his words rendered me speechless. It was a sensation I didn't ever want to feel. It made me feel weak and human.

_"Of all the comrades that e'er I had_  
They are sorry for my going away  
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had  
They would wish me one more day to stay  
But since it falls unto my lot  
That I should rise and you should not  
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call  
Good night and joy be with you all..." 

Ah, I understood now. This part was specifically for the people he lost during war it seems. The hidden allusions and the meaning behind most of his words were worthy of interest, but it still was nothing more than human sadness. It was common for people to feel sad for death even though it's quite trivial in terms that everybody eventually comes to the same end. He must have lost the person in an unnatural way. If he's a doctor, maybe he lost him at the table or gurney in the desperate process of trying to save him.

_"A man may drink and not be drunk_  
A man may fight and not be slain  
A man may court a pretty girl  
And perhaps be welcomed back again  
But since it had so ought to be  
By a time to rise and a time to fall  
Come fill to me the parting glass  
Good night and joy be with you all..." 

A final strum of the vibrant strings, _"Good night and joy be with you all..."_

He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his feet idly before shaking himself out of whatever stupor he was in. He looked as if he was about to play another song when I noticed his calloused fingers starting to crack and bleed. So he doesn't play every day. He just played when he was younger and hasn't grown used to it again. The unseasonably cold weather didn't seem to be helping either as he tried to keep his hands warm. Idiot, that isn't going to do much unless you had gloves, which might I add, he did not.

"Your hands are starting to bleed," I informed the guitarist, and he froze a little before shoving his fingers in his pockets, his acoustic guitar hanging on only by the strap around his neck.

"Yeah, they are, but that is of no business to you," he replied cautiously. So he didn't trust people as easily as I thought.

"Ah, I suppose not," I mused before questioning, "How are you liking London, doctor?"

I saw him stiffen out of the corner of my eye and smirked.

"H-How did you know I was a doctor? And that I haven't been in London for long?" He was obviously shocked from my deducing. They always were.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to him and walked a step closer. People always asked the same thing, just different parts of their past.

"Your fingers."

He stuttered, "M-My fingers?"

"Your fingers are slender and fleet around quickly. They also appear to be clean and sanitized, judging from the state of your nails, probably a five-minute wash which is typical for a doctor before he even enters a hospital setting."

"Perhaps I just like cleaning my hands," He spoke defensively.

"Oh please. The way your fingers moved is obviously not the normal way for fingers to flit across the strings of a guitar. They flew like when you prod a patient, testing the vitals for specific symptoms. Also, may I add that you have recent indentations from possibly a syringe or stethoscope meaning that you were, past tense since you were obviously fired with the lack of an ID, scrubs, or medical supplies, recently seen by somebody who required such. Unless you are a drug user, which you are not, I don't see much else of an explanation to see why you can't be a doctor."

His jaw opened with a pop and I wanted to chuckle but decided against it, "As for the London part, don't bother saying you weren't going to ask since I could see the question fleeting to the front of your mind, you are a soldier, correct? The dog tags on your neck are recent though you obviously don't take as much care of them as you did before. One is yours, the one at the front I would presume since it matches the wristband around your carpals. The other is more reflective of light, better-taken care of, so it's a good friend, no?

“Anyhow, you are still walking like a soldier does and judging by how you respond and stand, you just got back recently. If I am correct, the most recent ship of soldiers that returned home were from overseas, and your tan concludes that you were in that area, and therefore, that ship."

As I gave this information to him, I saw him shake his head with utter astonishment.

"Brilliant. Absolutely extraordinary."

I cocked my head to the side, "Extraordinary?" Not the reception I was expecting at all.

He smiled a little with a light chuckle, "Yes. That was just... utterly phenomenal."

I gave a small smile of my own, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

My smile widened a little more as I remembered everybody who gave me a glare or a terrified pause, "ah... piss off."

The doctor blinked before giggling. It didn't take long for me to join in as well. The atmosphere seemed to have gotten significantly lighter after that.

All was interrupted when the sound of my stomach was heard. Ah yes, food, that's what I was doing before being intrigued by the man next to me. I didn't want to eat, didn't need to since work was more important and, might I add, exciting. Breathing is boring. Eating is boring. Sleeping is boring. Cases and homicides were... rushing.

"I suppose that is your queue to leave then Mr...?" He inquired.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

He nodded, "The names John Watson, formally Dr. Watson, but John will do. Well, it was nice meeting you, mate. Hopefully, I'll see you around here," with that he turned slowly to walk down the alley he came from. He looked sad with the heavy steps he planned and planted. 

It was a sad sight, yes, but I felt no sentiment for the man. He understood what situation he was in.

Nonetheless, that didn't stop me from trying to find out more about him.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson?" I shouted out to the slumping form. John turned around to look at me with mild surprise and relief.

He walked back to me and stood a few feet away, obviously unaccustomed to being close to people, "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

I groaned at the formalities. They were as distasteful as the individual they associate with.

"You can just call me Sherlock. I don't necessarily do well with formalities. With that said, isn't it normally a reaction to give the entertainer money or a tip for his performance?"

John blinked and didn't say anything.

I rolled my eyes, "Oh, come on John. It's obviously you don't have anywhere to go at this time, right? Right. You had heavy steps, not the brisk stride of a doctor, meaning you were going to wander aimlessly, correct?"

He nodded slowly, "Yes...?"

I smirked a little at his response, "So, would you care to join me for brunch? I don't plan on eating anything, but I don't mind extending the offer."

His hesitation was so thick it was almost visible. 

I gave an exasperated sigh, "It's my treat."

With a sigh of his own, more so resentment I suppose, he nodded, "Fine. Lead the way Sherlock. Thank you by the way... prat."

I chuckled softly at the insult and made my way to the cafe of my choice.

“Perhaps we could even bandage those virtuous fingers of yours while we are at it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning of writing this, I did heavily use parts of conversation from the actual show. I do break off from this later, but at the moment, I needed it for a foundation of sorts.  
> God, I use a lot of "seems" with Sherlock. Note to self: Limit that.  
> Enjoy. :)

**Sherlock**

I felt my eyebrows furrow as I watched John from across the table. He had his head low, almost like he was ashamed and trying to hide his face, and tried to eat as quietly as possible. Every little movement of his was silent as the light snow falling outside. Little contact was made with anybody, except the occasional glance at myself.

The only possibility I could gather was that he was trying to not gather attention due to the fact that he was a "low-life" talking to a man like me. How typical; sad, but typical. At this establishment, nobody really cared who was with whom (myself especially) considering that I aided one of the owners in this place. John really has nothing to fear, at least as long as I'm around though I doubted he would take the advice from a man whom partially abducted him for brunch out of mere curiosity for his personality.

Speaking of curiosity...

"John," He physically jumped and then looked at me with wide eyes before closing them and opening them with light weariness, "You don't have to hide your face here. The people here don't necessarily care about the company much as they care about the appetite they have in the first place. Stop worrying about such trivial things."

_Really John. Worry and sadness are quite melancholy feelings that shouldn't be felt for more than a few hours. It's not good for your health, he should know, he's a doctor._

John looked taken aback for a moment before smiling with a bit of shame from the looks of it, "Yeah, sorry. I just feel a bit self-conscious right about now."

I nodded, "Understandable. You are wearing old, torn up clothing and your complexion is quite filthy, so I can see your point," he was about to argue before I continued, "But, as I said earlier, nobody here cares about that. As far as they are concerned, you’re just another... colleague of Sherlock Holmes."

He huffed, "My clothes are perfectly fine," he grumbled, and I raised a brow, "Okay, they are decent," I rolled my eyes at his denial, "Fine, they are in bad condition, but I don't have the money, nor the convenience, to go shopping for some high-class clothes such as yours. These clothes still fit me and as long as I occasionally sew up the ripped up parts, they are perfectly fine for another two weeks."

I gave him a look of pity before wiping it from my face. Judging from his sagging shoulders and darkened face, he probably doesn't want any sympathy or pity at the time, especially my own. He is probably relishing the horrible memories as to why he had to resort to such methods. 

Ah, memories. It must be horrible sighting something and immediately having a flashback to the war zone. Guns in play, eyes peeled for the smallest of movements. He looked like he was having one of those moments judging by how he flinched at my experimental drop of the pen in my hand. He looked at me and glared at the smile on my lips.

It was amusing to see his reactions, despite how immoral it would be to any witness's' perspective (not that I gave half the care I could). I'm practically testing his tangible PTSD by performing this, but boredom was a real and valid issue at this time. He wasn't doing anything interesting and pulling out his guitar was out of the question with how skittish he was and the fact that he thought he would attract attention. Perhaps I should question something... normal. Wait, no, normal was boring. Well, so was breathing, but I suppose it wouldn't kill me. Maybe.

Tapping my fingers against the wooden table, I let out a sigh before glancing at John's hands. They rested in tight fists but even now I could see the small traces of blood still marring the skin. 

Glancing about, I noticed Angelo and motioned him over.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," he greeted with a wide smile, practically beaming in curious happiness when he looked between John and I. "How very nice to see you again! May I ask what the occasion is?"

"Just catching up with a colleague," I assured, but Angelo's eyes narrowed a bit.

"Colleague?" 

"Yes," I responded with a roll of my eyes. Honestly, what did he think John was to me? "Do you perchance still have the bandages I left here? The ones after that one incident just last week?"

"Which one?" he joked half-heartedly before nodding. "If it is from the time you came stumbling in with a knife wound in your stomach, then yes I do have them still. Just in case, you understand."

"Of course," I acquiesced though I noticed John visibly tense. When Angelo left to fetch the bandages, I could feel the stare focused on me from his direction. If it was anything physically impaling, I was nearly positive I would have a glowering dagger in my skull by this point. Or, at least, a hole of some degree.

"Incident? Knife wound?" He hissed at me with shock. "What do you _do_ ?"

"All in due time, John," I took the bandages from Angelo's hands and waved him away before grabbing John's own. At first, he nearly pulled them back immediately. A natural reaction it seemed. Still, after a moment of hesitation, he rested them in my own as I occupied myself with bandaging the bleeding on his hands. 

You'd think a bloody doctor would take better care of himself.

As I worked meticulously at wrapping the breaks of skin, I could feel John's pulse slow down. He was relaxing and perhaps getting used to me. Thank God for that. It would have been rather annoying if he kept getting fidgety over the smallest of actions. Especially in my profession.

I finished them up and placed the rest of the bandages on the table for any future use. John glanced at his hands with skepticism. I almost smiled as he made sure my wrapping was good enough for his liking. So he did have some standards. Another likable quality.

"John, do you have a phone per chance?"

Tilting his head, he nodded and took his out. It was old, not any of the newer, more recent versions I have seen. All the same, it was an electronic cellular device of some sort so I didn't care as to its condition. I held out my hand, but he didn't immediately move to place the small piece of technology in my awaiting palms, "Why do you want it?"

"I need to text someone, but I appear to have left my phone at home," I smiled apologetically.

He didn't fall for it like most do, but rolled his eyes nonetheless, "Fine. Just don't hack the bloody thing, please. Like I said earlier-"

"You don't have the money to spend on electronics and decent clothing. Yes, yes I understand. May I please see the phone now?"

Shaking his head, John slapped the phone into my palm, watching me curiously as I tilted it in my palms. It all but took thirty seconds (if that) to observe all it had to offer.

Another possibly maiming stare was sent directly at me as I did everything but what I said I would do. John was worried by how I would treat his phone no doubt. Please, I was a high-functioning sociopath, but I was not a rabid beast. I did have some dignity in me, actually, quite a bit in retrospect to the observing John Watson. 

“Well? Are you going to text whomever you must?” He questioned wearily, eying my stilled fingers. I grinned and immediately started placing my number into john's cell while observing the marks on the phone. Interesting. I didn't notice those before. “Ah, yes. Sorry, I blanked out for a bit.” Not really, of course.

"Your phone – it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you thrive on the streets, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches – not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting in front of me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." I caught a faint glimpse inside the phone and sighed as I clicked the okay button to enter my number, "Well?"

He blinked, “The engraving?”

“Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live, disregarding the fact that you don't have a true one to begin with. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic-”

“Wait,” John shook his head to shake him from his stupor, "h-how did you-"

I sighed and glared at him, “Should I continue or do you not want to hear the rest?”

He smiled at that, clearly amused with something, “Why for you to show off? Sure why not.”

_Show off? No, no John Watson. This is only amateur observations. The best is yet to come._

“Anyways, as I was saying. The three kisses say a romantic attachment but since it's only 6 months old, marriage issues were stated clearly, yes? Nonetheless, he's giving it to you. Don't give me that look, John. If she had left him, he would keep it as sentiment, something to remember her by but no, he's trying to get rid of it so _he_ left _her_. Probably is an alcoholic as well, now that I think of it. Anyways, he gave the phone to you to keep in touch.”

John was silent for a moment, and when I bothered to look up from the device to himself, I noticed something odd in his eyes. It was an emotion I didn't expect to see in his eyes. It was something I rarely saw in anyone's eyes, really. Amusement? Interest? Or was it possibly awe?

“How do you keep so much air in those lungs of yours?”

My lips twitched to a smile despite myself. “Off-topic John," I dismissed easily. "Now, why are you not going to your brother for help? Trying not to disappoint?”

He shrugged but I could see the forced leisure, “I don't want to be a bother, and yes, I'm already a disappointment. No, I'm not going to explain that any further to _you_. I don't even know you, yet you seem to know everything about me as if it was on _Wikipedia_ for everyone to see.”

I leaned on my hands, staring ahead. “No, you’re just an open book. Not as open as everyone else, but an open one nonetheless.” _An unfinished one that needs to be written to its fullest._

Sighing, he glared at me with curiosity, not anger. It was almost like he was angry at _himself_ and not me. “How could you _possibly_ know about the drinking? The smell? Stains?”

"Oh john, give me some credit here. It was more of a shot in the dark, but a good one, correct? The charger. The power connection is jammed and slightly scratched indicating forced entry and also an adjustment of the mind to not be able to place the charger in correctly. Scuff marks around the edges indicate that he had shaky hands. These marks are a drunk's. Something a drunk man can't leave without and a sober man would never do."

“Amazing,” he breathed.

I shrugged and rose an eyebrow to see if my deductions were on the dot or not. More so the first than the latter. Preferably the first to the latter. Definitely the first.

A little bewildered, John smiled, "you’re correct. Although you’re off by one point."

A mistake? Impossible.

He smirked as he leaned over, one arm on the table and the other propping his head up, "Harry is short for Harriet."

I froze and blinked before swearing to myself. John seemed to find this amusing and laughed. I pouted, unaccustomed to missing a fact about someone.

A hand patted my shoulder, and I looked up to see it was John's.

"It's okay, mate. Everybody makes mistakes."

"I don't," I grumbled sullenly.

"Oh shut up, you just did."

"No, I didn't. I just forgot something. It obviously just slipped my mind."

John rolled his eyes, "Whatever you say, mate, but you don't seem the type to forget such a detail as that if you know what I mean. But whatever floats your show-off boat."

I shrugged, "I have talents. I'm going to use them, John."

"No, you’re going to throw them around. I don't normally say this, but you're an arrogant bloke to others from what I've gathered. Now, I don't necessarily care too much myself, but you've got to admit that it isn't a good way to make friends a good way to make friends."

"I don't have nor do I need friends." The response was automatic, cold, and meant to push off the topic, but that didn't seem to drive him away like it did most.

John merely blinked at my cold voice, not expecting it in the slightest. He thought I was going to feel pity or guilt for myself (like most who thrive on social interaction and popularity). 

_Well, I'm sorry John to disappoint you, but friends are not necessary a "must" in my life. Besides, nobody ever lasts long enough to be considered more than somebody I knew for a day or so._

"Friends don't mean anything to me," I added flippantly. "I get bored, eccentric, and at times, completely irrational to some, so there is nobody who is fully capable of controlling and conversing with a creature like that. I'm married to my work and friendships would only get in the way of it."

I saw him take a deep breath, "O...kay, then. Um... I'm sorry to hit a nerve?"

I nodded to him silently and looked out the window, occasionally glancing back at John for an observation.

He appeared to like the sunlight, even if it was clouded by the light snow. Each flurry attracted his gaze and every little movement made him dash his attention to the next object. He obviously still held some oversea genes in him by how he kept an eye on anything that moved. His hands were constantly in fists, but would occasionally flatten out to indicate his relaxation. He was a skittish man, afraid to stay in one place for long considering how he was tapping his foot. Even though his face was rotated to look out the window, his body was turned towards the door as if he needed to think of a quick escape at any moment. He didn't seem to adapt well to London at all. 

_If that was the case, why did he come here at all?_

"John," He turned towards me again but his body was still in a path to the door, "Your phone?" 

He blinked and watched as I slid his phone across the little table, "Thank you for letting me use it." I gave one of my fake, but satisfactory smiles to him. 

"Ah, yes. Your welcome." It was only a snippet of his previous amusement. It seemed like something had drained it from him to the point that he didn't question me for what I used his device for or the fact that I held it too long for a usual, quick text.

"If I may ask Dr. Watson, why did you come to London?"

John just stared at me for a moment. It was a blank stare like he was not sure what I just asked. It was like his mind psychologically couldn't comprehend my words or just let them float over him. He didn't even blink or move. It was an odd expression for someone who vividly shows his emotions.

Then, like a switch, he smirked like everything came back together, "I thought you could deduce that already from just looking at my, oh I don't know, _nose_ or something? You've been spot on so far, except for my sister. What's stopping you now?"

I shrugged, "Curious of your side of the story. It's something different so humor me by explaining."

He turned his body and his full attention to me, trying to figure me out. I wanted to chuckle at his attempts. _Sorry John, only one person can do that and luckily he isn't here._

"Why are you so curious of my nature and my, oh, so boring life, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock," I corrected automatically, "and because you’re an open book with unfinished pages every other page of the story. It seems like every page of your book is cut in half so only half is revealed and the rest is hidden. I've already explained this before, John. I'm just piqued to hear the other side of the story, and to complete it."

"So you were bored?" He deadpanned and I shrugged before nodding. It was easier than the usual, _"You're not boring, and I like to figure out why you're not."_ It usually didn't go well when I put it that way. 

"Yes, quite."

"And I just happen to be there for your little mind fingers to pick apart?"

I gave him a look, " _mind fingers?_ Your vocabulary is rather atrocious, John, since I expected something rather elaborate coming from a _doctor_ ," an annoyed sigh filtered between my teeth as I seethed this to him, but I reigned it in. He did ask a question that wasn't too absurd, I suppose. "But to answer your question, no. Your expression and the way you kept off from anybody attracted my attention. You're a street performer. Likeability is key for the best profit, and you lacked it terribly might I point out. Lastly, it was the thought that you were a doctor with the army, yet you have no money at all from serving with them. It's interesting, really."

He looked away, a little on edge, "They had to let me go. That is all, nothing more."

I raised my eyebrow at him, "Don't lie to me, John. It's _impossible_ to lie to me. I know there is more than what you say judging by how you can't look at me when you lie." _It was practically a tell-tale sign. Novice._

Glancing back at me, he didn't seem keen on responding. Still, he let out a sigh and opened his mouth with only a minute's hesitation. 

It was at that moment that I felt a vibration in my pocket. Performing my own little sigh, I opened up the text. 

“Hey! I thought you forgot your phone!”

I smile mischievously, “I'm sorry John. I had to test to see how oblivious you were, and I'm sad to say that you are more so than not.”

Groaning a little, he sat down in the chair and leaned back all the way, arms crossed over his chest, “I swear. How do people deal with you on a day to day basis?”

I frowned, “They don't. I'm normally alone except for the occasional check-up from the land lady or a weekly murder case to solve.”

“Murder cases?”

“Yes, John, murder cases. Didn't you hear me? In fact, I have one here as well.”

**Lestrade**  
Triple Homicide, I'm sure you already know where.

I could feel the excitement enter my veins as the possibilities welded up in my mind.

"Sherlock?"

I looked up at John, who was eying my phone with curiosity and then myself. He was already on his feet with his guitar case strapped to his back.

"Ah, yes, John?"

He was bouncing on both feet, feeling the need to go somewhere safer in his standards no doubt.

"Does this conclude our... Brunch?"

I thought about it. I could say yes and have a goodbye returned to me in which I may never see the very interesting, but very dull and boring, doctor again. Or, I could mention the murder and see if he could diagnose the body. Anderson doesn't appreciate my qualities like John, and I can't stand Anderson at all. His IQ could send signals to lower everybody else just by _looking_ at them. John, albeit a little dirty, could definitely be better.

"Actually, I was curious."

He stopped, "Yes?"

"Would you be able to diagnose a body?"

"Yes?"

"A dead one?"

He paused and eyed me wearily. I recognized _that_ look all too well.

"Really, John. I'm not the murderer," I scoffed at the idea of _that_ happening. The Yard would have a field day. " _Please_ , and even if I _was_ , I wouldn't let anyone find the body. Now, would you be able to diagnose the time of death, or how the said victim died? It's very crucial that I know this might I add."

He thought about it and nodded, "Yes, I should be able to diagnose the body based on symptoms and the overall rigor mortis of the body. Why do you ask?"

I smirked, "I believe I might have found you a new job, Dr. Watson."

He eyed me suspiciously, “A new job?”

I rolled my eyes in retaliation, quite annoyed by how he missed the obvious, “As my assistant, of course. Well, not necessarily an assistant per say, but you will follow me around and help me solve murder cases when I need your help. That wouldn't happen too often of course since nothing stumps me, but you can aid with the common diagnosis of the murders, I suppose.”

His mouth flattened into a thin line before pursing at my proposal, “And, what makes you think I will take this 'new job'?”

I allowed my grin to spread slowly across my face, “Where else have you to go, John?” He blinked at my response, “Come on. It's going to be very _not_ boring I promise. Every murder brings more games to play and right now, the game is on to track down the murderer of this case.”

As his shoulders sagged, all I saw was defeat. “Fine. But where will I stay? As we have clearly made sure to acknowledge before, I have no money at all. Bloody broke in fact.”

I gave him a look. Wasn't it not obvious?

“I thought it was obvious to you, John. I mean, you _are_ a doctor, correct? It takes quite a degree for that profession. Shouldn't you, at least, be able to deduct _simple_ things?" I splayed my fingers across the table, placing all my cards right. "Why, you will stay at my place of course.”

He sputtered, “N-No! I couldn't possibly-”

“Of course, you can," I waved a hand dismissively. "I have a spare room, and I've been keeping a keen eye for someone to be my flat mate. I suppose you will do considering that you haven't fled the cafe due to my deductions yet.”

The sudden proposal must have exhausted him. His muscles relaxed further into his subjected "defeat." He leaned heavily onto his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked frustrated but worn out, “I still don't know anything about you though besides that you are quite the annoying little pest that most wouldn't enjoy having on them.”

I merely stated what I said before. “All in due time, John. Nonetheless, I want to make sure before we continue. You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor.”

He nodded, “Yes.”

“Any good?”

He thought about it for a moment before nodding with a smirk of his own on his lips (pride), “Very good.”

I leaned on the table slightly, “Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.” I wanted to test his wits, to see if death scared him. I couldn't possibly have a man frightened of a little blood in my flat. That would be utterly exhausting. The last person I needed was one that would scream like a bloody girl at the sight of a molding hand.

“Well, yes.” It was like he was mocking me a little, but I brushed it aside.

“Bit of trouble too I bet.”

A soft chuckle, “Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Now I grinned, excitement peeling into my features, “Want to see some more?”

He gave me a weird look, but smiled widely despite himself, “Oh god yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, I get to meet a strange man and get hired by said strange man all in the same day," I concluded to myself, staring aimlessly out the window, "I can't wait to see what he has in store next. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an elephant in his flat or even a dead body to be honest. Both maybe. What with him being all fucking posh and strange and what have you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness. Revising this takes forever. I revise it on AO3 and then copy the revisions to my .doc for FF.net. So not fun. But worth it. :)
> 
> It's 3:19 am and I'm going to sleep. Goodnight, guys.

**John**

_"So, I get meet a strange man and get hired by said strange man all in the same day_ ," I concluded to myself, staring aimlessly out the window, _"I can't wait to see what he has in store next. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an elephant in his flat or even a dead body to be honest. Both maybe. What with him being all fucking posh and strange and what have you."_

I looked at his reflection in the window and noticed him also staring out his window, seemingly out of it and bored. Well, he did say boredom was a problem with him. Boredom and lack of common decency - though the second bit was my own observation. 

Staring at him a bit longer, I rolled my eyes, _"Yeah. He was definitely mental. Or something. Maybe the something. Mental implied derangement and so far the most "deranged" he's gotten is dragging me around like some rag doll."_

Using my index finger, I rubbed it against the condensed glass to draw figures. They were simple little drawings. A stick figured man here, and a stick figured cat there; honestly, that was about as creative as I could get. Music? Easy. Art? I'd have better luck attempting a _"Finger-Painting for Dummies"_ book. 

Where were we even going? So help me, if this man was actually a murderer, I would probably end up shooting myself for my stupidity and safely cross "following a psychopath" off my list of "to do or not to do." Fucking hell, it wouldn't be the first time I misjudged a man. 

Definitely a first for following one blindly, though. Every cell was practically screaming "John, you're a bloody idiot, and your fellow soldiers are tossing in their graves or groaning from a headache known as your stupid decision." 

We must have only been in this cab for roughly 5 minutes now, and I felt bored out of my mind. I wanted something interesting to happen, blimey, even a harsh deduction from the stoic, stubborn man by me would be better than sitting here in silence and trying to be as small as possible. 

Which in itself was a feat considering the nearly claustrophobic crevice they call "seats." More like a dinky cardboard box the size of a book, but who am I to say anything? It was a free ride, and if it didn’t turn out well, then perhaps I can explore the newer district for my rations and people to impress. It was a win-win to me. 

What was Sherlock even _doing_? You'd think that perhaps he might be a tad decent and, oh I don't know, inform me voluntarily what he did and what to expect. But I didn't get a damn word out of him. So was he antisocial? Or just being a twat? _Both?_

_Boy, John, you sure know how to pick them, don't you? Might want to change that before people suspect you go after all the mental ones._

I heard him give the address earlier, Flat 221B Baker Street it seems. Was that his place? I think I passed that area while I was wandering around the city for a place to rest awhile back. Pretty posh area if I never seen a better one. Blokes didn’t take too kindly to some “bloody strumpet” playing on the side of the road, waiting for some hitch. The birds were even worse, but I rested my case. Needless to say, definitely not the best area to be in unless you knew where to look. 

If it was weird for me to be in, I could only imagine how unorthodox it was for Sherlock. He wasn’t what I would call “normal” under any circumstances. Weird in every version of the word was putting it lightly. It seemed like a normal neighborhood for an unusual man like him. I expected him to live in a place like a mansion, but he probably doesn't like flaunting his wealth if he did have any, not like I care. I'll eventually get an actual job so I'm not chasing dead bodies and criminals, but that probably won't be until I get settled. The bloke was nice enough to offer anyways. It'd be rude to just walk out after he just asked. Didn’t change the fact that I didn’t trust him as far as I could toss him which was, admittedly, not very far at all. 

This silence will be the death of me. Ultimately, the suffocating silence will possibly ruin me if Sherlock didn't speak up within the next five seconds. Was this normal? Should I expect this? 

Can cabbies play music? I haven't ridden a cab in quite a while. If they could, why wasn't he? Fucking hell, I can practically _see_ the tension in the air so by all means the driver should see it too. What kind of cabbie was he anyways? 

Not a good one, clearly. 

Well, there goes my tip. Gone simply because he wouldn't turn on the bloody radio. 

I hated silence, needless to say. 

"So... what do you do?" I questioned eventually, the irritation taking over my usual weariness easily. Because, seriously, who acts this silent? This was a different kind of hell and I've been to many. "Or what do you like to do? Hobbies?" Scolding myself for such a stupid question, I kept an eye on him, hoping for a response to escape this suffocating silence. Even the cabbie wasn't uttering a word. Stupid cabbie. 

After a minute, Sherlock raised a brow at me, "Why don't you tell me? I'm sure you have a few deductions of your own." 

_So he really wasn't too keen on delivering any information until he deemed fit. Well, that's just great. Lovely. Just fucking perfect._

A part of me wanted to strangle that pale of his or perhaps punch him. The only reason I didn't follow through was because bruises and evidence would show much too easily, and I didn't want to risk cutting my hands even more over those cheek bones (who had any that defined anyway?). 

_Take a breather, John. You've already confirmed he's weird and apparently you're interested in that for some stupid reason. It's your fault entirely._

I gave a forced chuckle and thought it over, "Well, you obviously are not a part of the police, you don't have a badge on you at all and you don't seem the type to enjoy it. That being paper work, of course," I glanced over to see him smiling and continued, "I would say a private detective..." 

"But?" He inquired, eying me with curiosity. 

"But," I started, "Police don't come to private detectives, do they?" 

He smirked, "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world." 

I blinked at him before chuckling lightly, “You having a piss?” When he stared at me in shock, I shrugged and tagged on a reason. "I've never heard of it before." 

Sherlock quickly recomposed himself from his previous shock. I almost envied him. "That's because I invented the job. My own personal title you could say." 

"That almost sounds like a pity gift, mate. You sure someone wasn't just pulling your strings?" _Oh_ , and if glares could pierce as strong as the emotion behind them I was nearly positive I would have been bleeding in several places at that moment. I had to bite my cheek to hide the laughter that almost escaped. 

"It was not a pity gift," he sneered like I mocked his damn virtue or whatever. Like his profession was his personal little cheerleader being snickered at. _It's just a title. No need to get defensive._ Of course, I didn't say any of this out loud. "You can call the Yard as well as all my clients and I am positive they will tell you the same. I created the profession and it's a title of my own." 

I rolled my eyes, "Of course you did. How could I not expect anything less?" I muttered this more so to myself than to Sherlock as I looked outside again, not really done with talking to him, but satisfied nonetheless. One could only talk to him so long before getting a tinge annoyed after all. 

"Talking to yourself is making you look crazy, John." 

I turned my face to glare at him. It was making me look crazy says the man who just abruptly picked a random man off the street for help on a murder of all things. Says the man who apparently created his own job. What kind of person does that? He doesn't even look the type to trust people like me, so I don't get it. I don't get him. 

"So is creating your own bloody job! What? Too many times disregarded amongst interviews?" I asked him. God only knew how many times that had happened to me since I arrived. I doubted he had the same issue with his intelligence and certain degrees of some sort under his belt. Narrowing my eyes, I whispered harshly like it was a conspiracy. “Are you secretly mad?” 

He laughed and for a surprising second it actually sounded strangely sincere, "Actually, no. I'm perfectly sane if you mean I'm emotionally incapable, but if you mean that I do preposterous things to calm my boredom, then yes. I would say that I am mad. Anything else or are you satiated?" 

_Yeah. You ignored my first question_ I wanted to retort but bit my tongue. Despite the flare of annoyance, I knew better than to look the gift horse in the mouth. 

I did groan, however, since having no response to that was weirder than the man himself, "When will we be at the crime scene?" I was starting to get annoyed a little at how slow time seemed to be passing, but at least I wasn't bored out of my mind now. Or being screamed at with silence. 

He stared at me with bewilderment then with seriousness, "John, you do know how you appear, correct?" 

I considered the attire and state I was in and nodded, getting the picture, "Yeah, yeah. I know. I should probably take a shower and get some new clothes..." _If I could do such thing in the first place._

He never seemed to miss a chance to point out my poverty level the twat. Every second he can fit a prod in. I didn't even know if he did it on purpose. 

"Yes. That would probably be best. Otherwise, people may think you’re just a stalker I have taken under my wing," he spoke carelessly. 

My eye twitched, "Yes. That would be terrible, wouldn't it?" 

"Utterly terrifying." 

I shook my head and stared out the window, muttering to myself, "I'd still appear more decent then the corpse itself.” A warm shower wouldn't hurt either. Perhaps I could clean up the stubble festering on my chin or what have you. Either way, I've been in these rags and tatters for way too long. I’m sure they look more like a second skin to me. 

Not to mention my cuts on my hands and my shoulder would be grateful. The scar tissue was beginning to bother me with the change in weather. Incredibly uncomfortable was putting it lightly and when I was uncomfortable that tended to make me an incredibly disagreeable man. 

Still, a part of me didn’t want to just get rid of the clothes on my back. God only knew why with the baggage they dragged to the table. 

**Sherlock**  
I peeked over at John before looking away. 

It was true I needed a flat mate; well, actually that everybody else thought I needed one. They said I was too antisocial but don't they understand I'm married to my work and don't have the time to make "best friends"? I don't even have one friend to call my own, not that I am complaining, of course. I didn't need them. 

Yet, I had an inkling of a feeling that if I hadn't chosen one, they would have enforced it to the point that they'd pay somebody to move in with me. That was out of the question and practically unbearable. What if the man/woman was another Anderson? 

I'd rather jump off a roof top than associate my flat with him or any of his likeness. The world would ultimately end at his indistinguishable wrath. 

I sighed to myself and watched as the cab turned on Baker Street. 

At least I persuaded John to see the flat, though he seemed rather reluctant. I could understand why, but shouldn't he be grateful that he isn't living on the streets like the homeless circle I know? I would prefer a flat to the streets, so shouldn't he feel the same? It certainly provided more…home-like accommodations in comparison to asphalt I’d assume. 

I suppose I was essentially a stranger to him and that was what drove his uncertainty. Not that I have actually attempted for him to consider otherwise. I haven’t exactly primed myself in the best light. No doubt caution was being exercised at this moment for potential insanity. 

I didn’t expect him to stay long needless to say. He would probably leave, like most do, but at least he was attending what I proposed. The flat won't be a silent void of nothing for a few minutes, not that I am agitated when it was. That was not at all what I was implying. 

it was just nice and different. 

_Too much emotions, Sherlock. Stick to your intentions._

As we were slowing down in front of 221B, I threw some cash in the drivers face and jumped out. I heard the commotion behind me intensify as a quite confused John Watson followed suit. His face was comical, but I held back the chuckle that twitched at the corners of my mouth. He probably wouldn't enjoy that. Though, I will admit, he was a bit slow, considering he was a soldier with quick reflexes. Or at least in his past he had been. He was probably used to the cab stopping before leaving it like most people. 

Boring people at that. I hoped he wouldn't follow their style long. 

_Well John, I hope you learned you lesson. I am not "most people" and am not related to anything of that certain adjective._ I tapped my foot a little to emphasize my impatience, but I made it so subtle to see if he would notice it. 

He did and looked up to me with raised eyebrows, "You are quite the impatient man. It is almost like you actually have a life outside picking up strays off the street." 

I gave him a blank stare, "Problem?" 

Shaking his head, he waved the cabbie off, "No. Not at all. I just have never seen anybody utterly excited about somebody's death." 

I smiled, "Isn't it fun?" 

"Not when it's a living person. Like I stated earlier, the victim was a living individual and now they're murdered in some bloody place. It is unnatural. How is that fun in any way?" 

I was tempted to remind him of his eagerness earlier, but decided this was a bit different from the general excitement of an adrenaline rush. This was human morals. Lovely. 

I frowned, not at all pleased where this was beginning to stray, "I was hoping you would go a little deeper than that John." 

Rolling his eyes, he jogged a little to catch up to me at the door. 

I looked around him before looking at him again when I realized that there was a certain sound missing in his step. 

"What?" he grumbled, confused as to why I was looking everywhere but him. 

I realized instantly what was missing. I was just surprised that he didn't notice it as quickly as I. 

"Your...guitar?" 

His eyes widened, and I heard him swear, "Bloody hell. I-. Is there any why I can call and get it back?" 

I shrugged, "I highly doubt it, John. You don't even have a number to begin with to dial and the odds of you getting the same cab again are a slim chance, don't you think?" His shoulders slumped at my answer, and a small amount of pity entered my thoughts before being swept off. The guitar was precious to him, a family heirloom? No, not that important. He uses it daily, or at least he did before he left for overseas. It was a gift, probably from his mother gathering from the sharpie scroll on the back and the significant little note that only a mother would leave for her son's... perhaps 16th birthday. He got it while still in school, but not too young. The wear and tear on the instrument was one of being handled and played every day for at least 2 year (or occasionally for much longer). He obviously went overseas at 18, or as soon as he could, so 16 was the most reasonable age group. He treasured it so his mother might have passed soon after he got it. He holds it dear to him. Sentiment really. 

I didn’t see how such an item could hold such weight, but I suppose that’s what I get for lacking tactful sentiment. 

"Did you play for your mother when she was dying?" Odd. That was not at all the question I wished to ask. In fact, I never wished to press into his personal matters – mostly due to redundancy – but apparently my mind had other motives. 

He looked at me with wide eyes, sputtering, "w-what? How did you-?" 

I shook my head, not bothering with an explanation for once (for I couldn’t even fathom the nature of my curiosity to begin with), "That's of no importance. Did you play for your mother when she was dying?" 

"I'm not even going to hide my awe in how you knew that, but to answer your question, yes. I-I played for her when she was dying." 

"What of?" Why was I continuing to pursue after him? There was no reason to. 

Another sigh, "lung cancer. Terrible really. We didn't even know till the week after my birthday." 

I gave a small smile. I understood the shock, but of a different scenario, "What did you play? Wait, no, don't answer that. You made your own composition of music did you not? Probably something slow and intricate to make peace with your mother, correct?" 

This time there was a hunted look to his eyes. I was crossing territory. Weird. I would have thought that to occur with the very first question. 

"Yes. It was a small piece. I believe I called it Shattered... Maybe someday I'll play it again, if I ever get my acoustic back again that is." 

I opened my mouth again but he swiftly cut me off, "No more Sherlock. We have a case to get to, correct? Also, you won't let me go anywhere near it without me being of decency so let's get into the flat of yours." His voice was strained and faint. Barely the resemblance of the man from a minute ago. I needed to fix him. 

_Fix him? Need? Where had that come from?_

"It's your fault for taking so long getting out of the cab," I reminded him. 

His eye twitched slightly, very slightly, and just like that I fixed the doctor. "Sherlock! I swear... You are supposed to wait for the cab to stop before jumping out, not the other way around," John huffed as he caught up to me at my door. I shrugged and was about to walk in when Mrs. Hudson revealed herself behind the door, a smile tugging on her lips. 

"Sherlock! What have you been doing? I came out here to see what the ruckus was about, but instead I find you and..." her voice drifted off as she eyed John. I rolled my eyes, and John rose a brow inquisitively in my direction, clearly catching it. I was positive he would catch on immediately without introduction. 

I could see John was uncomfortable, sensing the meaning of her gaze on him finally. Clearing his throat, he finished her sentence before she could utter any more (a grace I was thankful for) "colleague. Sherlock... wanted me to see his flat for a possible flat mate opening? I'm sorry if it is of any inconvenience to you." He shuffled slightly, giving a sheepish grin to the elderly woman. 

She was won over immediately. It must be his charm or something of likability. Why did I say charm? That implies that I thought of it as such. Clearly not. 

"Oh! No, no, no dear! Don't apologize. I was just surprised since Sherlock has never brought anyone home in interest of sharing a flat," she leaned into John as she tried to whisper something, rather poorly at that, "He's so alone the poor dear! I hope that you stay." 

John chuckled lightly as I rolled my eyes and sauntered into the flat. I was immediately met with a wave of warmth and sighed, glad to be back at my flat, even if it was for only a few short moments. It was warm compared to the chilly scenery outside, a lot more... livable really. Furrowing my brow, I tilted my head and sniffed the air, only catching glimpses of what the object in question was. As I realized what it was, that being chocolate chip cookies no doubt, a smile spread on my lips. She was cooking something as always. Probably to feed me later. Nothing could get past Mrs. Hudson though. She constantly badgered me to eat so I'm not all "Blood and bones". Always on my heels with a plate of pancakes or a bowl of soup she was. Now, though, I don't have time. Even if I wanted to stay and chat, I had little time to actually enjoy a meal with an exciting murder case on my mind. 

With that, I briskly walked up the stairs. I didn't even have to motion for John to follow. 

"Ah, I believe I should be following him now. Thank you Mrs. Hudson for letting my stay, even if temporarily," John spoke as he walked up the stairs as well. It pleased me that he knew the subtle signs by now, considering the short amount of time we have been together. He was trying to catch up to me, that much was apparent, but there was a small limp to his step. 

Psychosomatic no doubt. He never had it before and the stress of his past seemed to have sparked it. 

Waiting for him on the top step, I opened the door and walked in. That was when I heard his steps cease. 

Turning, I saw him stare at my (or what used to be) livable sitting room with a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment. It took me a minute to realize that my accommodations might not have been in their best state at this time. Books were scattered from the last case and files were thrown roughly on the couch. I had board games stacked gallantly on the bookcase, almost tipping over in fact. A cup of cold, half-drunk tea was on the end table, completely forgotten. A few test tubes and flasks with a toe here or some other experiment there were placed in various places as well, but was mostly condensed in the kitchen. 

"So... This is the flat of Sherlock Holmes I presume?" John asked with a hint of uncertainty. 

"Um... Yes, well you see, I could tidy this place a little. It's just that I haven't-" 

John held up his hand, "No need for explanation. I kind of assumed it would be like this since your mind normally reflects your type of living," he shrugged but it held a certain stiffness that I recognized as minuscule anxiety, "we'll just have to clean it later. Now, I don't have any clothes to change into so..." 

I blinked. _We'll_ just have to clean it later. Not _you_ . _We'll_ . Maybe I haven't scared him off yet. A intrigued spark nearly pulled my lips into a smile, but I restrained it before it could be seen. 

Clothes. Focus, Sherlock. "Ah, give me a moment. I might have some clothes I can spare until you gather your own. They might be a tad big," I mentioned, idly measuring his height to my own. Yes, they would be quite big on him, indeed. He might have to roll the cuffs to his liking to make it work and even then they would still remain comically bloated. 

Well, no time to be concerned over fashion. There was a case I had to get to. If I had to deal with the after math of forensics ruining yet another crime scene, I was probably going to be driven to strangling them for their stupidity. Clothing seemed small in comparison to that. 

Rushing to my room, I pulled out one of my suits. I rarely had any casual wear so hopefully this will work for now. I walked back outside only to see John talking with Lestrade who was eyeing me with raised eyebrows, obviously curious. 

I furrowed my brows, "Lestrade? What are you doing here? I thought you would be at the crime scene by now." 

He chuckled, "I was until I realized that you were uncharacteristically late to the scene. I decided to take it upon myself to make sure you weren't knocked out," he motioned to the room, "I'm surprised that you haven't yet from the look of this mess." 

I rolled my eyes and gave the suit to John, whom was eyeing Lestrade warily. I should probably introduce the two before things get out of hand. Authority figures probably didn’t bode well for the “stray” as he called himself. 

"Ah yes, John, this is Jeff-" 

"Greg," Lestrade corrected. 

"-Lestrade, Private Investigator at the New Scotland Yard. Lestrade, this is John Watson, army doctor and soon to be partner in crime." 

Lestrade smirked a little, "Found yourself a man that can stand you and move in with you? Color me surprised." I could tell he was joking, but I still felt my lips thin in response. 

"I'm actually just getting used to him to be honest," John chimed in, a little of a smile on his lips as well. Turning to the man, he held out his hand in which Lestrade took it with a firm shake, "Nice to meet you, mate. Hopefully we can be friends." 

"Yeah. That would be great," he responded lightly, already used to the doctor's kind personality. 

"John..." I hinted, sparing glances to the bathroom down the hall. John took the hint and thanked Lestrade before taking my suit and walking briskly to get cleaned for probably once in a few days. 

Once the door was shut, Lestrade patted me on the back. I stood rigid as he did so but relaxed after a minute. He barely took any notice. 

"I'm proud of you, kid. You actually tried to find somebody who can fill in this empty place of yours. He seems nice enough, maybe he'll give you some good habits like cleaning or not shooting holes in your walls that cause the neighbors to call us. Did you know Mrs. Carbuncle complained that she found a finger in her tea yesterday?" 

"Ah, yes. There was that case with the decomposed man in the tea barrel. It was to explain the unstable time of death. I had to test the oxidants and she was the only one in direct vicinity with the teaI needed," I shrugged. "The test was a success. The murderer was caught. I fail to see the complaint." 

Lestrade rolled his eyes at me, not even attempting to make a fuss this time. At least he was finally learning where to align his priorities. "Where did you find him? John I mean. You said he was an army doctor so did you kidnap him once he got off?" 

I shook my head, a faint smile lingering on my lips. “Actually, no, I found him on the corner with a guitar in hand. He was playing a song that interested me." 

Lestrade blinked, clearly not expecting that answer at all, "You found him on the street? He seems so nice though." 

"He is. He still has those formal roots in him that makes him stand out to most. He was recently let off his job and he had no money to go around. I figured I would take him in." 

He shook his head, "You? Take in a random stranger off the streets? How uncharacteristic of you. Not that I'm complaining of course. I trust your judgment and if you think he is a good man, then I will go off that thought as well. Can't say the same for Anderson and Donovan though." 

"I have little patience for what they think about me or who I happen to be associated with, Lestrade. You know this, I'm sure." 

Lestrade held up his hands in defense. "I know I know. But hear me out, you may be able to dismiss the criticism like swatting flies, but John isn't you. He's more..." 

"Human?" 

He thinned his lips. "Not what I was going to say. He just has a more free emotional personality than you. Yes, he may be used to it from his time overseas, and yes, he may look like he is perfectly fine, but he isn't you. He will be affected by it, even if it looks otherwise." 

I looked at Lestrade with a narrowing of my eyes, "Since when did you become my therapist in terms?" 

A chuckle, "Since you came into the first case and since you opened that brilliant mind of yours to me, kid." 

After that we idled around, cleaning up some of my mess while we awaited John to get out. It didn't take too long, maybe 15 minutes, for him to finish his routine. When he did come out, I was in the middle of placing my books on my book case. Upon turning around, I blinked at John. 

I realized how big they might be when I gave the clothes to him, but now it was rather comical with how big they hung off his body. He was in no way small, but compared to me, he might as well have been a teenager or a young adult straight out of Uni. 

Lestrade laughed aloud, and John rolled his eyes, lifting his arms to hopefully indicate help but only making it worse with how the cuffs of the suit hung around his hands like mittens. 

"Here, mate, let me help you with that," Lestrade spoke, still holding back laughter at the sight. I gave a light smile as well before letting it vanish. 

"Ah, Lestrade, while you are helping John, can you inform me of the case?" 

He was rolling up John's cuffs on his trousers, my trousers, when he responded, "Sure. She's a girl, probably 23. From what I saw around her flat, her name is Alice Ferguson. Her cause of death is officially being hanged." 

"Officially?" John questioned as he lifted his other foot for the cuffs to be adjusted begrudgingly. 

"Her body shows marks of abuse or torture. Her wrists and ankles have dark bruises from being tied to a chair I would guess. She was probably dying then from internal bleeding, according to Anderson anyways, before they decided enough was enough and hanged the poor girl." 

"Any family?" I questioned, looking out my window. 

"No. She has no family. Father and mother passed away when she left for Uni. She had a sister, but she died of pneumonia." 

"Pneumonia shouldn't be enough to kill a young girl. Sicken her yes, but with enough medication and the correct dosage of rest, she should have been better. Unless-" 

"-she had a weak immune system," I concluded, "Good, John, but not important to the case. Still, perhaps you are proving useful after all. Anything else? Friends? Pets? Annoying neighbors even?" 

"She had two friends." 

"Had?" I turned around to look at Lestrade. 

He was now working on the cuffs of the top, rolling the ends up so John's fingers could be visible, "Yeah. They were found dead as well in the victim’s bedroom. They were tortured as well before being shot in the head." 

I noticed John wincing at the cruel death and sighed, "Okay. So then why am I needed per say. It sounds like another boring triple homicide case." 

"Well, the main victim, Alice, left a note." 

"Yes?" 

"It was a hidden note for if she had died. Only for those who could deduct it, like you." 

A smile grew on my face as I looked away and started pacing. By this time, John was completely adjusted to his suit and was placing his old loafers back on. Lestrade said his good byes and left, reminding me to be at the scene as soon as possible. 

After a few moments, I jumped in the air with glee, "Brilliant. A case, something new. Ah, this must be Christmas." 

John rolled his eyes, "You would be excited about this." 

"Well yes John. Do you expect anything else from me? Come now, I am the only Consulting Detective in the world, but I have to have my few moments of excitement. You may think it morbid and rather disgraceful that I can be so happy at this poor girl’s murder, but if you hadn't heard, she knew it was going to happen. She knew it was going to occur, her murder. She wrote a note, and not just an ordinary note, no, it had to be a special one or Lestrade wouldn't have come to me. What is she trying to tell?" John stared at my blankly and I stopped and eyed him with sincerity, "Oh I wonder what it is like in your brain. It must be so quaint and so dull. Come on John! The game is on!" 

With that I dashed down the stairs with a little hint of a bounce to my step that will no doubt go unnoticed by John. 

I ran out the door and hailed a cab, holding the door open for John to go in before receding into the vehicle myself. 

**??????**  
I smirked as I eyed Sherlock leave his flat, glee in my eyes for an instant before dwindling down to a small fire. 

He has a partner now. That was something I didn't expect, not that I am complaining! This will only make the game all the more interesting to watch and enjoy. If other lives are at stake, including a possible best friend if this progresses as splendidly as it had thus far, then the game can intensify to a new level. A brand new, exciting level filled with angst, depression, and lastly, defeat. Fun stuff, definitely not boring stuff. 

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock caught on to who was in the reigns of this plot, but by then it will be far too late to fully reprimand it. At that point, he will have to succumb to my calls like a pet dog, trained and trembling. Ah, I can't wait for that day to come. Of course, my game will be over and the one opponent I found increasingly entertaining will be depleted of anything but his unsure mind, but I have to enjoy it while it lasts. Before I go after the bigger fish in the pond so to speak. 

I giggled lightly, trailing a warm path from my fingertips onto the brick wall as I retreated back to the black vehicle awaiting me. 

_Sherlock Holmes. You have yet to realize that my game has only just begun._

_And you, my dear, will definitely not win it._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. Work and annoying allergies impede my time to write and I've little free time to even speak of. But I shall prevail! It's my goal to edit this story on here and I will do it. Just not in some timely fashion. Haha..
> 
> Comments are motivation, I will nudge out there. When I get one I feel the need to update as soon as I can because someone found it good enough to even post a comment (or bad enough to criticize but whatever).
> 
> I'll try to post another in a few days, Friday most likely.

**John**

It didn't take me long to realize when we were near the crime scene.

I almost wanted to chuckle. God, _crime scene_. I never thought I would ever be saying _that_ in a sentence in my life, nevertheless this very moment. 

Still, blue and red lights were reflecting off building windows, and the sirens could be heard blaring down the streets. Yellow "CAUTION" tape was strewn around the perimeter like a gate with police officers guarding it against curious eyes. The same words kept being muttered and used: _crime scene._

What exactly was I becoming or doing for that matter? Following mad detectives in the middle of the night? It sounded like some rubbish plot for some drama nonsense to me. Secret men, curious lovers, what have you. Certainly not something that I would be a part of.

I was more than relieved to see that not many people were here yet. Crowds were not necessarily my favorite aspect with scenes like this ( _a crime scene_ ). The surroundings were fairly discreet, buildings seemingly acting as another wall to block the onslaught of greedy reporters. A messy neighborhood that seemed more “out of the way” than what I expected. 

It would have been the last place I would have expected a murder, really.

I didn’t really know why the scenery of the place intrigued me so much. It was obvious that the scenery wasn't the main attraction of this attention. Maybe I didn’t want to come to terms with this. Maybe a wee bit of myself was still in denial that this was happening and that I was actually sitting next to some damn detective in a coat too dramatic for my likes. 

What exactly was he going for anyways? _Mr. Dark and Mysterious?_ The tall, dark, and handsome bloke that dragged in the damsel in distress? Please, from all I have seen he was more like a drama queen.

I briefly wondered if Sherlock was even his real name, or if it was another alias to his detective persona. 

My eyes traced the home where a concentration of officers and medical personnel alike came and left. 

Well, it was no longer a _home_ now, wasn’t it? 

The life had been drained from it. No people really lived in it. There wasn’t even going to be any witnesses or family. Now, it was the flat in which a young girl now rested with an unnatural death as her final moments.

Cold, dark, and alone.

_Sound familiar?_

I shook my head to clear my head of those thoughts immediately, yet I couldn’t help but to think what it might have been like in her shoes. Isolated, not knowing whether she would live or not. Unsure of any possibilities. Looking for escape but only finding the murderer's glinting eyes. She would be unable to move her hands and legs, wrapped up in rope or some sort of string. Captive, tied up, a dog on chains. And worst of all, nobody to hear her call for help except for her friends which may have already been dead in the next room.

I shuddered as cold dread ran down my spine. The experience alone would be awful for anybody.

"John." I turned to Sherlock who was eying me with curiosity and slight, _slight_ concern before flashing back to its defensive coating. It was faint and quick, but it was there.

To say I was surprised was putting it a bit lightly. I hadn’t exactly been proven that he held much tact of other individual worries.

A day full of surprises and firsts.

"Yes?" I replied, relieved that the thoughts from earlier hadn’t wavered in my voice.

"What are you thinking about?"

For a split second I thought he was yanking my leash, but as I stared at him longer and longer I didn’t see an ounce of humor or dismay in his eyes. He truly didn’t know.

Well.

I rolled my eyes at the man and scoffed with a smile, "I'm sure you know it already! Why don't you tell me?" To be honest, and it was becoming very annoying, I was actually attracted to the deductions. Well, maybe “attraction was a bit much.” It was more like a _guilty pleasure_ sort of interest. Something I probably should despise and hate but couldn’t for the life of me. 

And all because they were amazing – brilliant even. Absolutely extraordinary. Every little explanation was like listening to a story, and I suppose in a way it was. With the way his mind worked, he could probably name off the life story of anybody I pointed to. A new tale each time his mouth opened. 

It made me look like a kid waiting to open his gifts on Christmas, and I didn’t know whether to hate him for the addiction or to just give up and grant his ego some praise. I shouldn't be looking forward to his blunt accusations of actual fact, but they were more interesting than my dull life and what it could ever have promised. 

Of course, I wouldn't admit this to him, yet (if at all). I had too much pride to say such a thing to him. He would let it go to his head and quite frankly it was already big enough. Any bigger and he would probably fly away like some egotistical hot-air balloon prat.

"Well, since you asked," He started, observing my figure in his analyzing eyes, "Your hands are tapping quite timidly on your thigh meaning that you are nervous. It's erratic and not to a specific beat, so no you can't say that you were thinking of a song since you obviously weren't. I can see that you are biting your bottom lip every so often, that being uncertainty. You are unsure how these people will take to you, taking in mind of your background and how you appeared when I first found you. You are afraid of criticism but will take it gratefully nonetheless. The way your eyes are distant further infers that you are more than likely over-thinking little tedious things that probably don't matter at this particular moment. Now, your brows are furrowed, frustration? Ah, perhaps you are sentimental to the case, or furthermore the girl, and is angry at whoever killed her. You are human after all, quite an open book might I add."

My mouth was dry when he finished, and I hated how my heart raced in my chest. It was amazing, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder how bitterly blunt it was. 

My words came out before I could even stop them. A second too late. I really should have realized who I was talking to before I brought it up. 

"How can you _not_ hold any sentiment, Sherlock?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking, "Does caring and mourning over a lifeless body actually bring the person back to life? Do they return once the suspected murderer is behind bars? Will his punishment make her heart start up once more out of nowhere? Tell me, John, what good is mourning over _someone you don't even know_ when you certainly have concluded that it won't bring them back. Dousing your mood only makes you miss the important things. The important things that actually matter to solve this case."

"Yes, but..." and my mouth was on a bloody _roll_ with not thinking before speaking.

"But?"

"She had no family, her friends are dead, and I would suspect that nobody really knows her besides those who see or work with her. Nobody is mourning her death. Nobody will come to her funeral, or even pay for one for that matter. She will die without a single tear shed on her short-lived life,” my body was shaking in barely restrained frustration as my lips curled back into a grimace because I was annoyed. I was irritated and bothered by his stoic apathy, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why. “Doesn't that bother you? At all?"

Sherlock sighed, his mask becoming slightly darker, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, John."

It was such a morbid reply that I remained speechless while eying the detective with a mixture of surprise and sullen understanding. He said it like he was told the same thing like he cared for somebody and it never helped him. It was an emotionless response that gave off indicators, but none that I could really connect. It was then that I realized that Sherlock doesn't hold much sympathy for the deceased and even less for the living. He may hold a tinge of discomfort or pity, but that was as far as it got with him. Sentiment was not in his agenda or in his make-up. He relied on masks and sarcastic, satirical replies.

With that, our conversation ceased. He stared out the window with increasing boredom, and I stared out mine with slight concern. After all, we were both thrown for a loop and were too damn prideful to even come close to admitting it. 

Because that was admitting weakness, wasn’t it?

_Who would possibly want to do that?_

I tried to come close to understanding him, and yet it seemed that it was never going to happen. I didn’t see it happening at least. Every time I found something concrete, it would slip away like it never even existed. 

So, quite frankly, I didn’t understand him period. Not a single ounce of him. I only knew what he wasn’t like. Only the differences. Only the unorthodox. Only the weirdness of his entire make-up. _That’s all I knew._

His methods of dealing with the newly deceased were different than most people was one, but, then again, he was different than most people, original and the complete opposite of the men and women I grew up with. Just the way he brushed the girl’s death off like nothing happened was what proved this to me. I have been around people who have always cared for people, even those who have no relations to them, but now that I was back it seems that it was different. Nobody cared as much anymore, at least not this stoic, brooding man.

Then again, he didn't seem the type to show emotion (there’s another difference I told myself). Quite the opposite actually. Even though I haven't been with him for even a _day_ , I could tell he rarely held any ties with anybody. He was distant and resisted making any sort of contact with anybody or showing any weakness. He was like a soldier, like I was, in that sense, always on defense for the enemy. He was constantly prepared to place up his barriers and steel anything in his eyes that may reveal him. 

Huh, soldier. The thought reminded me vaguely of a song I wrote when I got back, one on my life as a soldier and as a doctor... Perhaps one day I'll sing it to him, If I stay that is. It would fit him quite well.

_It seems he’s not the only one making attachments now, isn’t he?_

As I shifted my gaze over to the stilled figure, I noticed just how thin he was. It was a random thought – nothing of true merit at all. It just seemed to stand out as another part of him, of his persona of sorts. 

He was a lanky man, and he probably rarely ate at all, but he doesn't seem to be having any symptoms of being malnourished or even fatigue. Earlier during our “brunch,” or whatever you call that incredibly memorably awkward meeting, he didn’t eat a morsel even though it was his stomach growling that provoked it.

“When was the last time you ate?” The words left my mouth before I could mull over them some more. Really, what was going on with me today? Blurting out things before I thought them over. Good God. 

Sherlock didn’t even seem to move from his perch of boredom.

“Three days ago.”

“Three-“ I swore to myself, taking in a deep breath before glaring at the man. “ _Three days?_ Did I hear that right? The last time you ate was three days ago.”

Sherlock rose a brow, probably taken aback by my annoyance of this fact. Well, the last thing I needed in a new flat was a bloody corpse when a certain idiot decided that everything else and their own smaller issues matter more. “That is what I said, correct? Why does this bother you?”

I motioned to his figure vaguely, not entirely sure why I was doing it in the process. “You’re practically a walking stick, Sherlock. Three days? You should, at least, be attempting to make a meal a day. How have you survived till now?”

“Mrs. Hudson brings meals when I am home.” I could read between the lines. _Since I haven’t really been home, there has been no food to eat._

But bless poor Mrs. Hudson’s heart for dealing with this prat and nourishing him on the days he was. God only knew what I would do in her shoes. Probably shove a few plates of food into him at least. I’d probably have to use my military training because no doubt he would have fought me the entire way but I certainly wouldn’t have waited for him to come home. I wouldn’t have been _nearly_ as patient as her. 

Most incapable genius I have ever met.

I sighed and looked away, mentally slapping my wrist for already self-diagnosing the man. I tried hard not to do it to people, glancing in their direction to see how healthy they were and if they were sick or not. I didn't want to do it anymore, but it was hard when your doctor instincts come in. Mine were just uncharacteristically active twenty-four-seven. 

I had a feeling Sherlock was going to test these boundaries very quickly.

Even if I wanted to confine these habits to rare occasions. Even if I would rather not think of every person as a potential patient for my scrutiny. I had a feeling – no, a certainty – that Sherlock would ultimately change this.

Because, obviously, Sherlock didn't think the same. Maybe, begrudgingly, that was why I was attracted to him from the beginning. He was the opposite of myself in the sense that he performed and acted as he pleased without a care in the world of opinions or insults. 

He loved to flaunt his brilliant assertions with confidence and nonchalance. He had an interesting life, one full of mysteries and constant surprises. I, however, had nothing of the sort. I didn't even know what Sherlock found so interesting in a "boring" man as I. Yes, I played guitar, and yes I suppose it was odd that I didn't have some sort of funds to compensate for my service, but that was a whole other reason altogether. 

Those qualities were not enough to spur interest. Those qualities were not enough to create a proposition. Those qualities were not even enough motive to stop and offer me brunch as he did.

Sighing, I observe my fidgeting fingers, the white bandages flexing with them, _"I don't think I will ever understand Sherlock. He's just... so unique. I can't even find the words to describe his personality and how he works_ ," I chuckled, " _This would prove Harry to be right on any other occasion. I did always manage to find the weird ones without fail._ "

The weird ones, the special ones, the oddballs; they always found their way to me. I wasn’t saying I didn't like it, since most are still my friends to this day, but it definitely stuck out when you were a lanky teen with a pink-haired girl and rainbow socks rather than the casual, pastel attire (past experiences in Uni – definitely a person to remember might I say). 

My “strange encounters” didn’t cease there.

For one, it was the dare from “strange guy” who introduced me to music in the first place. Mike Stamford was his name. I heard he still lived here, but I knew visiting him right now was out of the question.

I mean, was he even the same man from back then? The type of person driven by trending apps, and the type who usually avoided lectures with extremely ridiculous excuses ( _“I was held for ransom, Mr. Freyer! My life was on the line. Call the Yard for verification if you don’t believe me!”_ ). Of course, no one would question him or call the Yard in case they were wrong and nobody liked being wrong. Stiff upper lip and what have you.

I briefly wondered if he even grew up or matured from that. 

And then smiled at the thought of looking for him. _Maybe not now. Certainly not now. But perhaps later when I am more settled._

And there was that attachment from before. 

_When I am more settled._

I kept making assumptions that I was going to remain when anything could happen. Sherlock could kick me out. I could get fed up with his incredibly stupidly ingenious actions that borderline migraine-inducing seizures. We might not even _click_ much less stay in a flat for longer than a night.

Yet here I was making the hopes that perhaps I would. Even with all my ravaging uncertainty, I wanted to hope that this was true and would last.

God, I was forever the romantic. Harry would never let me hear the end of it.

 _The case, John. We have to focus on the case. Not on some rash detective with a serious moping issue when he was wrong. Not my current lifestyle. Not my past and family. The case. That’s why I am here._ That’s why I was originally “adopted” by Sherlock. 

I could already hear the mantra of “charity case” in my head, but for some reason I could never think Sherlock as taking anyone as such – let alone an ex-military army doctor on the streets.

Besides, Sherlock would never let me leave, and I didn't think I wanted to anyways. I didn't hold the same thrill as the excited detective next to me, but I still held a small amount of mild interest for the case.

After all, it was something new to my incredibly boring life.

I felt my phone vibrate and pulled it out, noticing immediately that I got a text. It was a number that wasn't in my contacts, then again, I didn't exactly have many contacts at the moment to be proud of. Perhaps it was Clara or Harriet and they got a new phone. It wouldn't be the first time they tried to contact me so they could help me out. Nevertheless, I denied every offer. I could make it out on my own. I did it in the war zone, so I could sure as hell do the same here.

I clicked the button to view the message and scrunched my eyebrows in confusion.

**-Unknown Number-  
You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson... You miss it. **

I didn’t hesitate to send out a reply.

**-John Watson-  
Who is this? **

My teeth clenched as I awaited the text back, that is if I got one. I didn't even know the number but somebody did if he was able to contact me! Who was this person? He acknowledges my name and obviously knows about my services with the military. Nobody should know about it unless the person was government-affiliated or...

I glanced at Sherlock with suspicion before noticing a name on my phone. My finger slipped apparently causing me to go to my contacts by accident. I was about to exit out when I saw a certain title in one of the contact slots.

_World’s Only Consulting Detective_

Great. So that was what he was doing when he took my phone. He did the stereotypical pickup line except missed the actual line “There’s something wrong with your phone. It doesn’t have my phone number.” 

On second thought, maybe it was best that he didn’t say that. Well, okay, it would have been hilariously amusing and I probably would have lost a good amount of breath and composure in watching him utter a pickup line. Goodness. With how stoic he is? I don’t know if anyone would believe him. I know I wouldn’t have. 

Nevertheless, it still didn’t change the fact that he had placed his bloody number on my phone.

I didn't really bother getting mad at him. Knowing him, he thought it was perfectly normal, although it was obvious to most "dull" people that it wasn't. Well, I doubt yelling and scolding him would actually do any good considering he practically has a snide reply to almost everything.

"John?"

I turned to him, "Yes?"

"We are here." Oh. 

I hadn't realized that we had stopped. It seemed like a second ago we had entered the general borders of the scene and now we were here. 

Blinking the thoughts out of my eyes, I forced myself to focus. I could think of these later, at a calmer time when I would hopefully have my guitar back. That was what I did nowadays when I thought too much. Music was my specific sort of therapy that didn't require me keeping a diary for every little thing that I did. The therapist wanted me to do that, to note everything that happened in my life, but until a few hours ago, I would have told her nothing ever happened to me. 

To be fair, it was true then. It was because all I did was roam the streets and occasionally work in the hospital until they decided I wasn’t needed or couldn’t keep up for some ungodly reason.

But this wasn’t so much the case now. Now I had a deducing detective who seemed to love showing off anything he could with his admittedly unique talents. It was almost like a child trying to get the attention of his mother, just not as cute, more so annoying. Like the same child kicking you in the shins and then smiling sweetly when all you wanted to do was put them in a corner. 

I couldn't deny that it was absolutely marvelous, though.

Once the cabbie stopped, Sherlock was once again running out and striding towards the neon yellow tape. It looked like he wanted to skip, and I laughed at that. I could see him doing that, skipping to a crime scene. It would be profound and utterly ridiculous and embarrassing, but it was still entirely possible for him. Like a reindeer prancing in the snow… except with bodies and police officers and probably blood and not snow.

Definitely not as appealing that was for sure.

"God, who am I dealing with?" I mumbled as I followed the detective warily.

I had to admit though that even I had a small smile on my face despite myself.

\-----------------------------------------

**Sherlock**

"Oh, so the freak has arrived. Why are _you_ here?" Donovan sneered at me. She was trying to scare me away with her weak insults again, never really concluding that they don't affect me. I have grown up with such torment, so your petty words won't touch my already cold heart. So I simply ignored her. She was just another simpleton with an even simpler mind.

"I'm here to solve the case that your team can't seem to create a solution for on your own," I replied with a hint of ice in my voice, giving a little smile to the irritated woman.

She glared at me, obviously done with my tactics at this point. Pity. That didn't take long. She had a shorter fuse today it seems. That was fine. That was why I have John as my acquaintance. He was a great deal more bearable than Anderson and seemed to match my liking to crime scenes, albeit he did show more emotion. It's one of the few flaws I came to notice in him by this point. 

He was open, his eyes the doors to practically anything to my taking. Well, almost anything. His orbs still held a little bit of secrecy when mentioning his soldier days, or I suppose his more darkened days. Of course, the more he hid it, the more I was going to have to guess and deduce until I reached its poor, shriveled core. A challenge was always treated seriously and figuring out John's past was quite the serious matter. 

Well, that was, if he lasted long enough.

Speaking of the doctor, I heard Donovan open her mouth, venom ready to poison anybody unfortunate of speaking to her. 

And, of course, John was directly in front of her.

"And who is _this_?" She turned to John who was shuffling slightly, unsure of whether to go under the tape or remain at his formal pose. He didn't know what to say and it obviously wasn't a sudden love at first sight since, for one, the concept was irrational and didn’t exist, and second, his pupils never dilated upon seeing her. Thus, he probably feared her for now. That made perfect sense since she wasn't exactly giving the best first impression like I had when I met him. It didn't help that Donovan was being a little bit more... haughty than usual.

Probably due to myself but that was beside the point.

I needed to stand up or at the very least ward off Donovan, or she may very well drive off my acquaintance if not make him increasingly weary with her lies.

I eyed her up and down. Hm.. ah, trouble in paradise it seemed. Her hands looked reddened, fingers twitching ever so slightly, she slapped someone, probably Anderson judging from how I saw him rub his cheek every so often on the same space her hand would have hit. So he did something wrong. 

Of course, he did. He was Anderson. 

Nonetheless, it was he who did the wrongdoing otherwise it might have been Donovan with perhaps some bruises the size of the pads on one’s fingers. She was completely fine physically, well, almost. Eyes were slightly flushed, she cried before she came to the scene. Arguments and not the easy, ludicrous ones. They were inflictive, something close to home. Hands shaking and the fact that her neck constricted every so often from glancing at Anderson, it might have been bad enough to cause a breakup between the two. 

How awful. They both fit together so well in terms of dull, boring minds and even worse personalities. What a shame. Well, I suppose it was nice he cut it off before his wife found out. The infidelity argument would end up making the entire yard more hell-like than the usual.

"This is Dr. Watson. He's my..."

"Colleague," John finished, seemingly claiming the courage he lacked before. He held out his hand as a kind gesture to the woman who looked like she wanted to just ignore him. John looked confused for a second before retrieving his hand and letting it fall to his side. Any emotion he held after that was carefully hidden from my watching eyes, but I could tell he was a little irritated at the woman. His hands were in fists, clenching before being undone once more. His mouth was in a thin line, emphasizing how much he would rather just wait back at the flat than deal with her. 

Hm... Perhaps we do have something in common, our similar dislike in the woman close to us.

But right now I really didn't have the time to worry about how quaint Donovan was being. A murder was upstairs, a triple homicide at that, and my mind was racing to digest the evidence.

Raising the tape for John, I awaited him to go under. He looked a little unsure as he looked at me and then to Donovan.

"Perhaps I should just stay behind-" he started, moving a step backward.

I rolled my eyes, "Nonsense. I don't have all day to wait for your confidence to spur you into coming under this stingy, useless tape. A young girl is murdered, and I'm the only one in this lot that can say why."

"Then why should I come?" He wasn't glaring at me, but his eyebrow twitched slightly. Agitation. 

I smirked, "Because I enjoy the second opinion."

He scoffed as he watched me speak, "Ha. Sure you do."

"I do!" I insisted, once again motioning him under the tape. With one lasting look, he finally sighed and went under the tape. Letting it drop, I walked away from the distasteful annoyance known as Sally Donovan and the tape just as she called, "The freak is here!"

That, of course, was the cue for Anderson to arrive. I was hoping that he might have tripped down the stairs and left to check a sprained ankle of sorts, but I suppose not all hopes can be answered. 

He was wearing those fruitless green scrubs that made his face all the more prominent. I wouldn't have minded him if he wasn't so dull, boring, and utterly impossible to deal with when it comes to murders. Every little statement he would give, albeit absurd, would be completely wrong and useless in the case. The way his mind revolves around little useless things like crime scene tampering and little facts here and there were directly pointed to make me want to shut him out of the room.

Which was what I normally did.

Still, as if undeterred by this, he was briskly walking to me now with the intentions of idiocy on his features. Joy.

"Why are you here?" he spoke deliberately. I could already feel the IQ of the yard decreasing by 1 percent.

"Really Anderson? Is that all your little mind can conjure when I walk up? Perhaps you and Donovan are a better couple than I thought just from the lack of any imaginative responses."

He paled slightly, "Sally and I are not-"

 _Sally. Oh, I definitely caught that._ "Yes, you are. Now, I'm going to be entering the crime scene. I’m going to figure out your perpetrator. Then I’m going to return to my flat while your division takes the name. I hope your terrible diagnostic team didn't mess with the body."

I heard him grumble as I walked up the steps into a flat, obviously roped off from anybody who wanted a closer look. Of course, that never included me.

"Sherlock!" I turned to see Lestrade walking up, green scrubs on as well.

I nodded in acknowledgment.

"Lestrade," I heard John greet from behind me as he shook the DI's hand firmly, "Nice seeing you again."

"And you, Dr. Watson," he turned to me once more, "Now, you have roughly 8 minutes before you two have to be gone. I am-"

"-Breaking so many procedures with me being here. Yes, I know Lestrade. You don't need to chide me of this every time. It doesn’t make it more effective."

He chuckled, "You're right. I don't have to. It doesn't stop me from doing so anyways. Maybe one day you’ll actually listen."

_Not a chance._

I was going to walk into the scene when Lestrade reached an arm out and stopped me. Annoyance flitted across my face as I turned to him.

Lestrade was giving a questioning look to John. Another person who was wondering why he was here. Lovely. At this rate, my 8 minutes will be drained to 3 (not a problem, really. I could finish the easy details in less than thirty seconds flat).

"I don't mind if you are here, we need you, but why is Dr. Watson here?” Pausing, as if realizing the tone he had taken, he turned sheepishly to the doctor and bowed his head in apology. “No offense, mate."

"None taken, "John replied, unaffected by the disregard. 

Sighing, I felt agitation grip my voice as I responded. "He's here to help diagnose the body."

"Isn't that what Anderson is for?" _Oh, look at who was trying to be a comedian today. An awful one at that._

I glared at him, "I can't work with him. His thinking interrupts my deductions. As for his team, they are merely a bunch of confused adults just holding diagnosing tools. They don't work well with me and I to them."

"But, John?"

"He is more tolerant of me. He's still standing here, yes?"

Lestrade laughed and shook his head, "Right. Before you go in though, doctor, I need you to put on this scrubs so you don't contaminate anything, surely you understand."

John nodded, "Yeah, I get it. I’d rather not leave any extra evidence with how much attention it’s already getting. What of Sherlock?"

I could feel a faint glare on my back as I crossed into the room to observe the scene, "I could never get him into one. He says they restrict his mind palace or whatever that place is."

"Oh," John said simply as he followed my example after donning the ugly green scrubs. 

I observed the room as John caught up with me, measuring every little indention in its crevices. The crime scene was surprisingly clean despite what I heard from Lestrade, but there were still other rooms in this flat. A bathroom and a bedroom. Nonetheless, I could check those after I observe the main attraction, that being Ms. Alice Ferguson. 

She was lying on the ground, and I gently crouched next to the corpse – looking without touching. John followed suit and kneeled on the other side of her, watching me.

Her eyes were open, so it was somebody who didn't care for her. They didn't know her and could care less as to her well-being. Her face held forming bruises on her left cheek along with a few grazes. She was slapped on the cheek quite hard so resistance was her attribute through all of this. She refused to give information to the murderers of choice, probably because they were the people she had information about and she knew they would kill her anyways. _Stupid girl but bravery is a form of idiocy, I suppose._

Other than a cracked lip and bed head, her face was otherwise clear. 

Wait, no it wasn't. Traces of a white substance were sprinkled around her lips, but I couldn't identify it without further testing it back at the lab. I used a little petri dish I had on me (one should always bring one) and gently nudged it under some of the granites, making sure enough was in it for testing later. After doing so, I shoved it in my inner pocket and continued the observation. 

Her body was slightly different in comparison. Both wrists and ankles were darkly bruised with broken skin where she tried to get free. A faint white powder was on her wrists and chest area as well, being mostly concentrated on her chin and lips ( _perhaps attempting to sputter it. Poison?_ ). Her ankles were clean of the granules, only being marked from the bonds in which she was kept. Judging by the patterned indentions, it was the same rope that was now around her neck. The chair she stood on was also the seat she was attached to, judging by the small flecks of white around the arms of the furniture piece. 

Any other injuries were obvious to even Anderson as to where they appeared from. 

He could not, however, see the other aspects. She had no boyfriend... no, girlfriend. Although this was more of a guess, as much as it annoyed me, she more than likely preferred the same sex as herself judging by her personality and tastes. She was alone, or liked to be, due to her condition probably. Albinism. She had brown eyes, but they were starting to affect her eyes and persisted in bringing out the iridescent red common in the skin condition. The tan she held was false as well as her hair falsely died a brown like her eyes. She was obviously one to hate going out, more reserved, but she was observant judging by the notes she had scattered around over little meticulous things of uselessness. 

Ah, this wasn't even _her_ flat. This was one of her friends. Close to the chair was an overnight bag with a tag on it, her name visible with neat scrawl. It looked doused by rain though no rain was even close to London at this time so it was out of town. She didn’t have a lot of money according to her cheap, hand-me-down clothing and call-only phone. She drove here from where she actually lived, that being Brighton, England. Her tag also showed this and her number and email.

"Well?" I looked up when I heard Lestrade call for my attention. I would have ignored him to continue my observations, but I already had gathered all I that was blatantly obvious.

"She was murdered, as you have stated, but the hanging came last. She was strapped to the chair for questioning on not what she knew, rather what she saw and noticed. The murderer didn't know her and killed her in cold blood after he discovered that he couldn't get anything out of her."

"He? The murderer was a male?" 

I rolled my eyes, "Do keep up. Yes, it was a male. Even by her slim standards, a female would not have had the endurance to actually preform all of the actions done here. Now, they tried to poison her, but it didn't work, mixed up the contraption in some way. She was tortured before being killed the way she was."

"That much is obvious," Anderson spoke and I turned to glare at him. Motioning at John, he looked at me and understood immediately what to do. Walking over to the front door, he shut it in Anderson's face and I almost smiled at the look he got. _Satisfactory. It seems my doctor is learning._

"This isn't her flat. It is somebody she knows, the girl friend of hers more than likely. She only came here for a visit, planning to leave tomorrow. Of course, that didn't go as planned. She was murdered plain and simple. Nothing more than an obvious triple homicide. What did you call me here for Lestrade?"

"This." With that, he turned on a lamp beside me, purposely directed at the wall. As he flipped the switch, a bright purple glow bounced off towards the white-washed wall, exposing everything. It was a black-light.

But that wasn't what intrigued me, no, it was what was on the wall. Words, verses of a poem I know quite well. It wasn't messy scrawl, but it wasn't neat. She tried to make it readable, but she didn't have the time to make it in a type-written dexterity.

Standing, John and I enclosed on the words, avoiding direct blockage of the light passing through.

"What-?" John started, obviously miffed.

"Shush John," I mumbled absently, mentally copying and pasting the text in a room of my mind palace for further deductions.

_Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling;_  
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore;  
'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, 'I said, 'are sure no craven;  
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore;  
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'  
Quote the raven, 'Nevermore'. 

At the bottom was a cursive-written signature, " _Alice Ferguson._ "

Scrunching my brows, I turned to look at Lestrade, "How did your team come up with this? I respect you with slightly more intelligence than the average human, but I can't say the same for the rest of them."

He chuckled, "Actually, Anderson found it," I raised my brow, "Okay, actually, he kind of accidentally flipped on the switch when he tripped over the chair..."

John chuckled next to me and I smiled slightly. _Of course, he did._

"John, did you notice the raven statue when you walked in?" I spoke, looking over at the grinning man.

He tilted his head before nodding, "Yeah, it was over by the Chinese vases on the shelf next to the front door. Why?"

I stood, patting down my coat, "Oh nothing, an experiment actually. Could you go stand by the statue?"

John did as asked and raised an eyebrow at me, motioning as to what I could possibly be thinking. _Oh, John, I envy your little spacious mind. It must be wonderful not being me._

"Okay, now, which way is the raven directed from your point of view, you being north in this instance."

He eyed the angle and spoke decisively, "It is directed exactly North East from where I stand. Almost an exact 45 degrees I'd say."

Nodding, I eyed the vision of the Raven to a book case. It was alphabetically arranged with various books that I could really care less of at the moment. The point of view was on the second shelf of the case and on the evergreen book in the middle. I inched towards to book and pulled it out, noticing immediately how light it was despite its deceiving thickness. It should have weighed more than it was. Odd... and intriguing.

I opened the book and smiled. _Clever girl._

The book was hollowed out so that the middle was cleared and the opposite cover of the book was glued to the edges of the pages. It was a great place for hiding materials and that was exactly what it was doing.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John spoke as he neared me. Lestrade also strode over, interested in my find.

Reaching into the book, I fished out the folded pieces of paper, all addressed to "Whomever it may concern."

"Letters? Why would there be letters in a blasted book?" Lestrade spoke, surprised by my find.

"It's obvious Lestrade is it not? Come now, the poem! It was written in lemon juice, one of the many substances that glow under a UV light. It is still quite vibrant under the light, meaning it has been written recently, but that is beside the point. Her friend was never here when she arrived, probably had a spare key. That was how she was able to do this if you were wondering.” I quirked my brow at the inspector as he sputtered but continued. “Also, she was the one to set the raven, knowing all too well that she was going to die, and she used the poem as a hint that only those well-versed and impeccably perceptive can understand, or myself. The raven at the end is the raven she placed where John was standing. The perspective at which it was placed made it look as if it was looking exactly at this book titled 'Nevermore' like the raven states in the famous poem. She was clever and smart despite the result."

John was wide-eyed in front of me, "That... was amazing."

I rolled my eyes, "You don't need, to say it every time. Such thoughts can be kept to yourself."

He reddened slightly, embarrassed, before rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, "Sorry. I'll shut up."

I blinked, a little taken aback as to how calmly he took that. Normally people would be swearing me out by this point, but John accepted it quickly, "No. It's... alright."

Lestrade cleared his throat, and I shook my head, pulling out the letters, "They were all written by her. The hand writing is the exact same as the one written in the poem and the tag on her case. They are dated variously and titled. Notes it looks like. The first seems to be a sort of introduction to the rest of the contents. She was being more sketchy and messier in the later letters, probably worried for her safety at that point."

"Well? What do they say," Lestrade prompted and I could feel the same curiosity coming off John as well. So easily entertained, the both of them.

"I thought I only had 8 minutes," I reminded with a smirk.

He grunted and thought it over, "I'll let you read the letters then you can observe the other two bodies and be out of here immediately after. Anderson and Donovan won't be happy, but they never are when it comes to you."

My lips twisted into a grimace at the mention of the other two victims.

"The other bodies are so boring, though, far less interesting than this girl. They were used as a motive for information that failed despite her relations to them, so a fight between the three broke out previous to the murder to lessen the effect on her. They were just there to spite her. Send them to Molly's if you wish and I can do further finalization there. Now, for the letters."

The dates were from the recent Christmas to just three days ago.

The first letter was the lengthy one, a descriptive introduction as stated before:

_Hello to whoever is viewing this. If you are, by chance, seeing this around my dead body, it must mean I have been murdered. I have expected this you see, but nonetheless, don't mourn for me. I have no family and even fewer friends who care for me, thus making this slightly difficult, no? Despite the fact that I may be lifeless now, find my murderer. He has come for me due to a secret I accidentally viewed without authorization. The same secret I have enclosed in these assorted letters. I hope the clues I leave you will ensure a enclosed case though the world has changed drastically and for all I know, it may run cold like many others. Now, I hope this is in the right hands when I say this. Please, stop the man, and the people alongside him, who have murdered me so. At that point, I will be fully at peace and will thank you greatly. Sincerely, Alice._

The next few were minor notes:

_1\. Jim Moriarty - Friend or foe? Obviously a boss of some sort, probably bad. Keep distance and keep an eye on the group of his. Curious how this might end._

_2\. Location - I believe I know where he is now. From what I have heard, he plans to pay this man to kill people. Of course, it seems the man was tricked, but nonetheless, it isn't my business. Though, it seems the tricked man was doing it for good intentions considering he was dying and wanted money to help his kids along. A good man doing horrible deeds. I wonder if I should report this. Probably not. Don't want to risk getting caught, though I have a sinking feeling he knows I'm already here and spying on him. God, do I hope he doesn't know. I fear the worst._

_3\. A letter - I've recently received a letter from a man with the initials J.M.. This is probably Jim Moriarty. He says the raven should have refrained speaking nevermore when it had the chance to do so. He does have a way with words, but I know underneath that my death is soon. I know there is no escape, but I might as well gather as much information as possible before I die. I want to try to help the others under his thumb and perhaps somewhere out there, there is somebody who can do that for me._

_4\. Other people - I keep hearing several names over and over again from J.M. That's my reference for him since I don't have enough time to write right now. He has recently moved to a new spot, one that took me a few clues of looking. I hope he refrains from killing me, but I can tell he is ruthless, despite his happy nature around his hit man "Sebby". I want to think that's a nickname for Sebastian, but one can't be too sure. I should keep an eye on him since he is more than likely going to be the man that will be my final sights._

_5\. A final note - The J.M. has recently sent me another note. It is not a warning, but a guarantee that my death will be tonight. I don't fear it to be honest. I like living, but I have nothing to live for right now. Family is gone, friends soon following their path. Perhaps this is my destiny; to sacrifice myself for the likes of others. Nevertheless, I will write more than usual since, by tomorrow, my body will probably be found. Jim Moriarty is a man to be careful around. He deducts as keenly as an owl at night trying to spot a mouse, but he always finds it. He will find your weakness and won't hesitate to take it away from you. I was just lucky not to have one when he caught me. When you do finally see him, beware. He has many guises and can trick you into thinking he's innocent. He isn't. Far from it in fact. I've caught him killing a few men and he seems to enjoy it. He's truly a psychopath. I know I will not be his final victim, probably just a dot in his long list of somebodies and nobodies, but you, whoever finds this, can surely stop him. He has no weakness, though. You must kill him to end him. No talking to him to get through to his shriveled heart. He's ruthless and will abide by nothing to see you burn. I know this in fact._

_6\. A memento - A final thought that has appeared to me just now. This will be my official last note considering the man will be here in half an hour as promised. They prefer being punctual despite the blood-driven murderers they are. Nonetheless, he always chanted one name over and over. It was like an endless cycle, never ending. He appears to want to kill this man, or at least, play with his head a little. I fear he knows too much of the man and that the man knows nothing of him. I do remember the name, though. Maybe you can save and protect the man from the same fate as me. The name will be etched into my memory till my final death. It's odd, but the name he recited was "Sherlock Holmes". Goodbye reader and I hope you receive this and not the opposition._

I dropped the letters back into the book, "Aside from the grammatical errors in these, she was clearly well-educated."

John scoffed, "Of course. A girl leaves notes to help us solve her murder and all you can think of is grammatical errors? How despicable but I'm not even going to scold you. I suppose from that you can tell what went through her head?"

"Of course," I spoke, "She was in a rush for all of these, obviously. Anybody with half a brain, or none, can tell that much. She wasn't afraid of her death since she didn't really have a life, which was nice since reading a sob story would have been rather unbearable, to say the least.” The two sets of glares I received for that didn’t deter me as I continued. “Now, the clues she did leave us are helpful. It seems this Jim Moriarty character knows more of myself than I know of him as the girl stated. Perhaps Mycroft knows something. He does have his uses." 

I placed the book in the crook of my arm and made my way to the exit, a smile on my lips for the interesting case.

"H-Hey! That is evidence you know," Lestrade stammered though it was obvious that he wasn't going to try to take the thing away from my grasp.

"I will return it to your team’s incapable hands soon enough after I have discovered the murderer. Until then, I will take leave with it."

Lestrade shook his head as I walked down the stairs and out of the flat. Ignoring the petty remarks of Anderson and Donovan, I hailed a cab.

"So what now?"

I turned to John as I heard a cab stop in front of me. Opening the door for him, I awaited John to step in before shutting it and returning to my side and stepping in, "Whatever could you mean?"

"You didn't ask for my opinion at all during the entire time we were in that flat, but you obviously have an intention of going somewhere. So what am I here for actually?"

I pursed my lips, "I didn't ask for your opinion there since I didn't want Anderson to give some stupid remark to infect your wording, but I would love to hear your deduction at this moment I suppose."

John rolled his eyes and smiled a little despite himself, "Her death was not hanging as you said. It wasn't even anything in relation to it. Her death was actually caused by potent blunt force trauma in the back of her head," I blinked, going through my index to see if I remembered such. I didn't of course and stared at John with annoyed confusion.

"From my point of view, Sherlock, the blood was pooling. It was utterly clean from your side so that is why you didn't see it. Mistakes are made and gone unnoticed by some so shut it and let me finish.” He grinned proudly as he added, “You were curious of my opinion correct? Oh, but yes. Blunt force trauma killed her along with some traumatic internal bleeding. The hanging was only an after-effect to make it look like she killed herself I think," he breathed and looked at me with curiosity, "So how did I do?"

I thought it over, "Quite well, John, quite well. You missed some of the major pointers, but you did well in discovering what you were supposed to see."

I saw John shake his head and look out the window, obviously a little done with talking to me, "So where are we going now? This isn't the route back to Baker Street."

"No, it isn't. We are going to a... colleague of mine. She is one of the few people who willingly gives me body parts for my experiments," I commented brightly.

"Oh, that's nice- wait for what? You perform experiments with dead body parts and of dead human beings at that?!" John sputtered, glaring at me with accusations of my sanity again. I sighed. It may take him a little longer than expected to get used to my antics.

"Yes John, do keep up. If we are going to be flatmates, we should know the worst of each other, correct?"


End file.
